Chameleon's Challenge (Chameleon Assassin Series Book 3) Read online

  “How long for a vampire?”

  “Probably about three weeks total. You have to understand that the shoulder and the arm would be very weak. It would take at least that long to build up strength and movement to anywhere near normal.”

  I thanked him and decided to go talk to my father.

  Dad had coq au vin bubbling on the stove when I arrived, and my stomach growled to remind me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. While I set the table, I filled him in on what I’d learned about Grenier.

  “What I’m wondering about,” I said as we sat down to eat, “is what kind of mutation he might have. What would give a man extraordinary strength and healing?”

  “You’re sure he’s not part vampire?”

  “Mike says no, and so do his medical records at Entertaincorp. His parents took him to plenty of doctors when he was a kid.”

  “And you’re sure of his parentage?” Dad asked.

  I chuckled. “No. As far as I can find, there has never been a paternity test.”

  “Corporate families have the best access to genetic testing,” Dad said, “and are the least likely to use it. They don’t want to know.”

  “So, give me your wildest guess,” I said as I refilled our wine glasses.

  “Mama was screwing around.”

  “Gee, Dad, that was brilliant.”

  His turn to chuckle. “You mean who she might have screwed around with?” He took a sip of his wine and got a faraway look in his eyes. “Libby,” he finally said, “the categorization of mutations has never been very good. Plus, whether a condition is a mutation or a birth defect is often rather hard to tell, and there are a lot more congenital defects than there used to be. But to complicate the issue, a lot of genetic manipulation has been conducted over the past hundred fifty years.”

  I knew that some of the more extreme mutations, such as vampires and lycans, had been encouraged by scientific tinkering, and the Pacific colonies had openly created people with gills who could breathe under water.

  “Back in the late twenty-first century, before the corporations took over, some of the national governments bred soldiers,” Dad continued. “Faster, stronger, less susceptible to pain, and they healed faster than normal humans. Then their militaries augmented them with computer and mechanical aids. The wars put an end to those countries and their breeding programs, but not all of those soldiers died in the wars.”

  “So Peter Grenier might be the descendant of some super soldier. Great.”

  “Possible, but keep in mind that some experiments were successful, and some weren’t. I’ve always believed that a lot of botched genetic mistakes were swept under the rug, or tossed out the back door. Some of those probably survived. The fact is, no one knows what kind of genetic damage is floating around in our gene pool.”

  Nellie was finishing her first set when I arrived at The Pinnacle. I ordered a drink and sat next to Mike, who was drinking a Sadie Green. My dad told me the name Sadie Green came from a song called “The Vamp of New Orleans.” He’d sung it for me, and it was pretty funny.

  Nellie grabbed a drink at the bar, then came and sat with us.

  “Some people aren’t too worried about security,” Nellie said, nodding at a woman a couple of tables away from us.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “That’s Kandi Cummings, Henri Latour’s sugar baby,” Nellie answered. “Henri arranged a couple of bodyguards for her, but she showed up without them tonight. Told me she bought them off so she could meet her boyfriend.”

  “Bought them off? She can pay her bodyguards more than a corporate SVP?”

  That brought a snorted laugh from Nellie. “She didn’t buy them off with money.”

  Kandi was a gorgeous strawberry blonde, taller than average, slender and willowy, with the kind of freckles that enhanced a woman’s attractiveness. I guessed she couldn’t be much over twenty-one.

  “She likes playing with fire,” Mike said. “The guy she’s with is one of Alonzo Donofrio’s enforcers.”

  Nellie nodded. “I heard her say once that Henri was too vanilla for her tastes. Not rough enough. She sky dives. Adrenaline junky.”

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t run into Grenier,” I said. “I think his idea of rough might be a little too much for her.”

  Chapter 11

  I showed up at Entertaincorp’s main Toronto office at ten minutes until eight, wondering how anyone in the entertainment business even knew eight o’clock in the morning existed.

  My credentials didn’t impress the security guards at the front desk, and I had to practically strip. It took a call to Director Pong before they’d let me in the building. I took the elevator up to the thirtieth floor and found Tremaine’s office.

  To my surprise, his name plate was gone. I opened the door and went in only to discover that everything except the furniture was gone. No secretary, no paintings on the walls, no books on the shelf. The door to the inner office was open, and it was just as empty.

  I walked across the hall and opened the door to Frank Ruiz’s office. His secretary looked up from her screen.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Tremaine’s office. Has he moved?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yes. He’s up one floor and down the hall. Mr. Weeks’s old office.”

  “I see. Thank you. So he’s been promoted?”

  Her face worked, and she looked like she didn’t know if she wanted to cry or be angry. “No, but the morning after Frank, Mr. Ruiz, was killed, he took it on himself to give himself a promotion. There’s nothing official.”

  I took the stairs to the next floor and found the correct office. It still had Carleton Weeks’s name on the door. I thought it was a bit cheeky to take over his boss’s office before the poor man was comfortably settled in his grave.

  Tremaine’s secretary was a clone of Sandra Jorgenson—tall, blonde, and busty. She had an accent I couldn’t place. I had plenty of time to study her, as Tremaine kept me waiting.

  When she finally ushered me into his office, I saw a small man seated behind a huge, shiny wood desk that probably required the sacrifice of a whole forest. Tremaine was in his late forties, with glasses and a receding hairline.

  I knew Tremaine hadn’t had time to redecorate, so what I saw was Weeks’s taste. Very expensive and elegant.

  Tremaine was talking to his computer and didn’t raise his head as I approached the desk. When he finally looked up, the expression on his face projected impatience. Then his eyes traveled up my body to my face, his eyes widened slightly, and a smile appeared. He stood and walked around the desk.

  “Hello, Miss Nelson. Won’t you have a seat? Can I get you anything? Some coffee perhaps?”

  “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you,” I said.

  I wore a dark business suit and shoes with two-inch heels. The top of Tremaine’s head barely came up to my chin. He was thin, appeared in good shape, and his movements were sharp and jerky, as if he was in a hurry. He poured me coffee at a sideboard and placed it on a coaster on his desk. A picture of a blonde woman with a couple of kids sat next to the carafe. I was starting to see a pattern.

  “So, what can I help you with?” he asked as he sat down behind the desk.

  Handing him my card, I said, “I assume Richard O’Malley told you that he’s engaged me to protect his friend, Nellie Barton. I’m also acting as a liaison between Director Pong and Inspector Donofrio of the Toronto Police in their efforts to apprehend the murderer of Carleton Weeks and his family.”

  “Yes, I know all that. I don’t know how I can help you, though. I assume the professionals will catch the madman who’s responsible. That’s what we pay them for.”

  “I understand that you were the manager who let Peter Grenier go,” I said. “Mr. O’Malley thinks that may be what triggered the murders.”

  “Peter? What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “I thought you knew. Peter Grenier is who the police are looking for.
He’s the man who attacked Sandra Jorgenson.”

  Tremaine furrowed his brow and played with his pen. “I didn’t know she’d identified her attacker,” he said. “My understanding is that she was hysterical, and they have sedated her since the attack. But I can’t see Peter doing anything like that. He’s a bit of a hothead, but essentially harmless.”

  I reached into my bag and pulled out my tablet, displayed Grenier’s picture, and turned it toward Tremaine. “This is the man who attacked Sandra. I was there. I saw him.”

  He shook his head. “I’m astonished. The assault on Sandra was unfortunate, but I didn’t dream Peter was involved. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She always treated him abominably.”

  “How so?”

  “He had a crush on her, I think. Tried to flirt with her, but she made it quite clear that his attentions were unwelcome. I tried to tell her to be nicer to him. I mean, it’s not his fault he looks the way he does, but she almost went out of her way to insult him. I mean, Peter is from a good family, and Sandra grew up on a farm.”

  “So, his flirting didn’t bother you?”

  “Not at all. Women like that know it comes with the territory. Men always notice her. She’s very striking.”

  I thought about what she looked like when I last saw her. Sandra would still turn heads, but not for the reasons people looked at her before.

  “Well,” I said, “I came to see you because of the parallels between what happened to Olga Raskalova and then Carleton Weeks’s family.”

  “Olga wasn’t very nice to him either,” Tremaine said. “As for my family, we have adequate security measures in place.” He straightened his shoulders and leaned forward. “Is there anything else, Miss Nelson?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Thank you for your time.”

  I stood to go. Tremaine jumped up and hurried around his desk. He offered his hand and I shook it, but he didn’t let go.

  “I hope I’ve been of some help,” he said, looking up into my face. “If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know.” He handed me a card. “Call me. Perhaps we could get together for a drink sometime.”

  “I shall call you if I think of anything else,” I said, disengaging my hand and turning toward the door. He walked with me, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he was giving me a good look. In particular, he seemed interested in my bust. I was sure it disappointed him, based on Sandra’s, his secretary’s and his wife’s proportions. No one had ever told me I had a “nice rack.”

  Of course, I was taller than either Sandra or the secretary, who sort of sneered at me as I walked by her in the outer office. Maybe my height gave me a shot at being his next mistress. Sandra was a couple of inches shorter than I was, but she had a closet full of four-inch heels.

  Outside the building, I let my restraint go and cursed Tremaine with all the loathing I had suppressed while in his presence. The attack on Sandra was “unfortunate?” The bastard didn’t know whether she was awake or not. I was willing to bet he hadn’t even been to the hospital. Instead of showing concern for her, he was making a pass at me.

  A thought struck me, and I pulled out my tablet as I walked toward the bus station. As soon as I found a picture of Grenier’s wife, I stopped and just stared. Tall, blonde, and busty.

  Nellie was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice when I got home.

  “Got a question for you,” I said as I poured myself some juice. “Did you ever know Grenier’s wife? Her name was Marlene.”

  My friend rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, then shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Could you ask around? I noticed this morning that Tremaine has a particular type of woman he’s attracted to, and Grenier’s ex-wife fits the profile. She’s thirty-two and they were married for six years, so if she was with Tremaine, it was some time ago.”

  “Poaching on the boss’s babe could be a career-limiting move,” Nellie said.

  “I got the feeling Tremaine might not mind. I think he views us as interchangeable.”

  “Us?”

  “Tall blondes.”

  “Oooh. You got an admirer?”

  I shrugged. “He suggested I call him if I wanted to meet him for a drink. Called what happened to Sandra ‘unfortunate’. I didn’t see a lot of concern on his part.”

  “Told you I didn’t like him.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s a jerk, but I’d hoped he would give me some insights into Grenier, and I got nothing.”

  “So, what now?” Nellie smiled. “I’m kind of liking living with you, but I don’t think we can relax.”

  “No. I figure Grenier is laying low and healing up, but he’s broke, and he has to be seething. I have a couple of places Lady Vivien told me about. I think I should see if I can find him.”

  “Do you want someone to cover your back?” Mike asked from the doorway.

  I smiled at him. “Thanks, but someone needs to stay with Nellie.”

  “Last time we were in the enclave, it was shaky, and there were two of us.”

  “Yeah, but they could see us. I don’t plan on anyone seeing me.”

  I stopped by a market, bought a case of apples, strapped it on the back of my bike, and rode over to the orphanage. Miz Amanda always yelled at me if I brought ice cream or candy, but she never said a word when I brought fruit. She told me once that she’d never had a fresh apple until she met me. Fresh fruit and vegetables were beyond the reach of most people, even those with corporate jobs.

  What could I say? Crime paid.

  I visited with Amanda for a while and chatted with some of the kids. When I got ready to go, I found Walter.

  *Hi, Miz Libby. Thanks for the apple.*

  “Hi, Walter. How’s your new chair working?”

  *It’s wonderful! I’m liking it more and more. It’s so nice to be self mobile.*

  “Remember the guy I asked about? The killer? You didn’t happen to hear anything from any of your friends, did you?”

  *Oh, yes, I did.*

  He projected an image of Grenier’s face into my mind, and then images of Grenier, with his shoulder bandaged up. Further images showed Grenier going into what looked like an abandoned, falling-down building. Not through a door, but a hole near the base of the building. The images weren’t clear enough for me to see the building itself, or its surroundings.

  “That’s wonderful! Did your friend tell you where that is?”

  A feeling of unconnectedness, of dissociation, came over me, as though the world was no longer solid. I felt like I was floating, and couldn’t touch anything.

  *I don’t know where things are, Miz Libby. I only know about here.*

  The tone of his mental voice was apologetic, as though he’d let me down.

  “Do you know how far away it is, or how far away your friend is?” I asked.

  *No. I can hear some people more clearly than others, but I don’t know whether that’s because they’re closer, or because they’re stronger.*

  “Do you know when those images you showed me happened?”

  *Not now. I don’t think they happen in the future. So that means probably in the past.*

  The implications of that made me feel a bit untied to reality.

  “Thank you, Walter. That’s really a big help. Thank your friend for me, too.”

  *You’re welcome. I’ll ask and see if he knows where things are.*

  Not, ‘where that place is’, but ‘where things are.’ In general. As per usual when I talked with Walter, I left with my head spinning.

  The two locations Vivien had given me were in completely different areas of the enclave. One was past the far eastern side of the city, near sparsely settled wildlands with forests and lots of small lakes—troll and lycan country, along with mutated bears and wolves and lynxes.

  The other location was more urban, and a lot closer to the house I’d broken into. After thinking about it, I decided it was more like the images Walter had shown me.<
br />
  I left my bike at the orphanage and took a bus north, then caught another bus as far east as I could go. Based on Vivien’s directions, I figured I was a couple of miles from the area she identified. Stepping into an alley, I walked along trying to see or hear anyone who might be near. Satisfying myself that I was alone, I blurred my image and headed east.

  The neighborhood was unfamiliar, and I soon discovered it had a mixed population of poor humans along with several different types of mutants. Sticking mostly to the alleys, I worked my way across the area without running into anyone.

  Then from one block to the next, the slum took a decided downturn. Instead of crumbling houses and townhouses, I found myself picking my way through rubble. Traces of an old fire were visible in places, and I decided I must be in one of the war zones from a hundred years earlier. People tended to get a little upset when they didn’t have food or drinking water—let alone luxuries such as electricity—and several large riots had engulfed parts of Toronto in the first decade of the twenty-second century.

  The corporations didn’t have much of a sense of humor about problems that affected their profits. Rioting poor people didn’t buy much, and they upset paying customers, who tended to hunker down and pray they didn’t get entangled in the mess. I’d seen a corporate ‘clean up’ of a group of unruly mutants in Chicago a couple of months before.

  Looking at the destroyed cityscape before me, I was glad I’d been born too late for the wars in Toronto. I was also glad it was still daylight. Most mutants slept during the day, as did the rats, cats, and other wildlife I associated with urban ruins. I checked my bearings against Vivien’s instructions and set off through the ruins.

  Three hours later, I was kicking myself for thinking I could find anything with such a vague description to go on. I’d walked up one street and down the next so many times that they all started looking alike. The landmarks Vivien had given me were no help. I had thought “the old store” would have been distinctive, but evidently people had a lot of stores back before the neighborhood was razed.